


And in the dusk of thee, the clock / Beats out the little lives of men.

by liminalweirdo, slowlimbs



Series: when we hit the city limits don't forget me for a minute (tonight) [4]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Benverly wedding!, Bev and Richie are bffs and we love them so much, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bisexual Richie Tozier, F/M, Frottage, Hotel Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, missing Stanley Uris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminalweirdo/pseuds/liminalweirdo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowlimbs/pseuds/slowlimbs
Summary: Richie and Eddie watch Ben and Beverly tie the knot, old friends are missed, hard conversations and old hurts are drawn upwards towards the light.
Relationships: (background), Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: when we hit the city limits don't forget me for a minute (tonight) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994314
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	And in the dusk of thee, the clock / Beats out the little lives of men.

**Author's Note:**

> Richie's sister being called Peg is taken from (the truly incredible) [In Fact, Everything's Got That Big Reverb Sound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385259) by dystopiary, because slowlimbs and I were somehow both convinced that Peg Tozier was her name in canon. In the end, it made sense that both women in the family might be named Margaret so... it's a headcanon now.
> 
> Title is from _In Memoriam A.H.H. by Alfred Lord Tennyson_
> 
> _The song quoted in this piece is _Take Me Down Easy_ by James Henry Jr._

Ben and Bev’s wedding, of course, is perfect. The venue is painfully gorgeous (“All Ben,” Beverly had admitted to Richie before the ceremony), and she’s gorgeous, of course she is. Richie tells her she’s magnificent about fifteen times because he thinks he’s more nervous than she is. She’s just resplendently happy. There’s no nerves here, no cold feet, no wondering about mistakes. Christ, Richie loves her, and he tells her so. He tells her, because he’s always believed it, that he’s so happy she’s happy. He tells her before, because this isn’t the stuff you put into a speech to a crowded room, it’s too close, too personal. It’s for her and her alone. She kisses him on the cheek and says “Don’t make me cry, Richie,” and then it’s time to go.

She’s all cream-ivory and fiery hair, and she’s got this armful of sunflowers. They don’t chill his blood like they used to. 

Afterward, after she and Ben are married, tied even tighter than before, some idiot hands him a microphone and free rein, and he makes his speech — the one for the whole room. The one that’s designed to make people laugh, the one that doesn’t make his throat tight when he says the words (only it does, a little bit. Just a little — _“you guys are the best friends anyone could ask for…”_ And when he says they’re missing one. One more.)

He spots his sister at another table, finally — hadn’t had time to see her beforehand, but she’d come because she wanted to see him. (“It’s been,” she’d said over the phone, “almost three years, Rich, jesus where does the time go?”) and Bev had been the one who offered to invite her, and now here they are in the same state for the first time in forever, thanks to Bev. He says “Peg!” and points at her, and she, embarrassed, makes a face at him like _I’ll kill you_ (he has had, perhaps, two drinks too many). He’s just doing his duty, he thinks, as little brother.

Really though, he’s in his element. He does love doing this — comedy, attention, all eyes on him. Eddie’s eyes. He meets them for a moment, just this slight, soft pause and he breathes a laugh because he’s fucking overwhelmed with gratitude for him, for all of them, for this moment. Ben leans over to say something in Eddie’s ear that makes Eddie flush and Richie, who’s finished his proper speech, the one he wrote down, starts talking about the “very sweet” little postcard Ben had written to a girl with hair like winter fire, once upon a time.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Ben says, but he’s flushed now, too. There’s the boy Richie remembers. Sweet, gentle Ben. He’s always been the kindest of all of them. And then a chorus rises from the Loser’s table. “Beep beep, beep beep!” And Richie laughs and, before he relinquishes the microphone he says:

“To remembering. To Bev and Ben.”

“To Bev and Ben!” They all echo, Eddies eye’s sliding over the empty place left for Stan just like six months ago in a Chinese restaurant in Derry. His heart aches.

And the ceremony— god, Eddie remembers his own, feels his ring like a dead weight in his pocket because even though he’s taken it off he can’t stop taking it everywhere. He doesn’t know why. 

Except he does. It’s not exactly contingency but he knows it’s the last thing tying him to an old life he doesn’t want. An old life Richie could send him back to. Now; an old life he’s sure Richie _won’t_ send him back to. Ben leans over in the middle of Richie’s speech and says: ‘that’s your man.’ And it settles something bone deep and nerve frightened he hadn’t really been aware of in his stomach. He feels himself blush. Feels Richie’s eyes on him and can’t take his own away even though Bev looks so, so lovely. Her own cheeks are alcohol pink and her lips are wine red, whether from lipstick or Merlot he doesn’t know.

He wants to cry with the amount of feelings roiling in his chest, thinks of the dam bursting, thinks of the sudden rush of runoff when Derry used to flood. He waits until Richie is finished, until the music starts up again (and it’s like they sat for hours trying to incorporate everyone’s taste, and it’s so sweetly Ben and Bev that he wants to cry all over again), before he stands and goes to Richie. Kisses Beverly where booze has coloured her cheeks, squeezes her hands and then settles one of his own on Richie’s back.

“I’m going to get drinks, sweetheart. You want?”

“I do want,” Richie says, and he’s halfway through “I’ll go with you,” when Mike calls his name and waves him over. He touches Eddie’s arm even as he feels Eddie’s fingers slip from his lower back, and he feels the gesture is too friendly — too friend- _like_. He wouldn’t touch him that way at home — that pat on the shoulder. Hadn’t touched him that way in the hotel room, last night. But he’s always too late to catch himself, and he’s got years of unlearning to do, so he gives him a look that says _christ, sorry_ and actively stops himself from kissing him quick. “Surprise me, dollface,” he says in his Noo Yawk voice, and then goes to find out what Mike wants.

He’s on his way back to Eddie — or even finding Eddie, who tends to get lost in crowds — when Peg says “Richie!” and then throws her arms around him — and suddenly he’s laughing. She steps back to look him over and says “Okay, who _dressed_ you? I know you didn’t do this yourself.”

And Eddie won’t admit it but it’s the ‘dollface’ that saves Richie from A Look. And fuck it, he thinks, and gets one of the bottles of champagne from atop the bar, tries to juggle six glasses and can’t, settles on four. 

Richie, luckily, has always had a way of standing out, at least to him. He’d know, find, love that slumped back anywhere. There could have been a million people here rather than the… sixty? Eighty? One hundred? Mainly work folk for Bev and Ben, but with the Losers here. Eddie thinks he’d be able to find Richie in a pitch black room. Eddie knows he’d be able to find him in a sewer system. He shows up just in time to catch— ‘I know you didn’t do this yourself’, and laughs. Hands Peg and Richie a champagne flute.

“That would be Bev. She’s a genius. Edward Kaspbrak.” He holds his hand out for her, smiling. “You probably don’t remember me.”

Richie’s smirking as he takes his glass from Eddie because he _loves_ Eddie’s professional voice. He thinks it’s hilarious, and he’s watching him while Peg furrows her brow, shaking his hand. “No—” she says, but then: “Oh, you’re— holy shit, _Eddie_ Kaspbrak? You were the one with the aspirator, I remember you. Richie never shut _up_ about you, oh my god. I mean he never shut up, anyway.” She punches Richie in the shoulder. “And apparently you never change.”

“That’s me.” Eddie’s grinning, goofy, blushing again and rubbing the back of his neck. Because that’s a lot of information. _Richie never shut up about you. Richie never shut up about you. Richie never shut up about you._ So what he does instead of kissing the man he loves is punch him on the opposite shoulder, while saying “I probably pissed him off so much there was nothing else for him to talk about, huh Rich?” Because he can try, if Richie’s not there yet. He can pretend things are the way they were.

“Ouch,” Richie says, rubbing the place Eddie hit him, and his jokes about violence die on his tongue because he sees what Eddie’s doing — sees it almost like an overlay: what Eddie does versus what Richie knows he would have done if things were different, if _he_ , Richie were different. And it’s Peg… it’s his sister and she always was awesome, really, he thinks and he replays the clap on Eddie’s shoulder and the way the word, the name ‘love’ sticks in his throat, and the way he has to use Voices to say anything at all when they’re like this. When they’re around other people, and he thinks _fuck it._

He catches Eddie’s wrist as he drops his knuckles from Richie’s shoulder, slides his fingers down over his palm and squeezes his hand like — not interlocked fingers, but like a kid — _hold hands so you don’t get lost._ He meets Eddie’s eyes for the smallest of seconds, and then, to Peg, “Eddie’s my—” he stumbles, over other people’s words, other people’s definitions. Somewhere, in his head, he thinks _Tozier, you fucking faggot_ and he crushes it out like a spent cigarette. “My partner,” he says, and it’s still— it’s not quite right, but it’s his word, at least, one he chose. One that’s true. “We, he’s— yeah. Yes.”

Not as eloquent as it might have been. He doesn’t let go. In fact, he holds tighter, and he can feel his palm, slick, and he thinks _Christ, don’t let go._

And Peg blinks at him, and there’s something sad there for a moment. A flicker, but it’s not _because_ of this, because when she smiles it’s genuine and there’s relief in it. There is. She says “Jesus H. Christ, Rich. How the hell did you get someone to go out with the likes of you?”

“Honestly I think he’s the one being punished. I’m incredibly boring.” But Eddie squeezes his hand hard, hard as he can and steps closer because _I’ve got you_. “He’s all you know— getting off a good one and belly laughs and I’m over here with my calculator and my pocket protector.” He squeezes again, then shifts so his arm is around his middle. “It’s lovely to re-meet you, Peg. Really.”

And then Bev is there. Richie gets the sense that she was lingering, and his heart is still beating so fast since ‘my partner’ his head swims. He shifts his weight into him, just a little, hears him being funny, being _Eddie_ , in a soft haze. And then Bev is introducing herself and Peg is doing the thing you’re supposed to do which is telling Bev she’s gorgeous (and she is), and Richie’s honestly… “What if,” he says, lips inches from Eddie’s hair. “We sit down, huh? I need some cake.” He means _I need some sugar before I fucking collapse._

And of course Eddie nods. Gets him sat down at a table and shoots Bev a grateful finger gun (and immediately decides he’s never going to do that again, why did he do that in the first place?), Gone and returned in less than a minute with cake, pulling a chair so close their knees knock. “Here. They had three different kinds so I just went safe and got red velvet. You okay? You want some water?”

“I want,” Richie says, “To kiss you on the mouth the second we’re out of here,” and he’s shaking, actually shaking and christ he’s so grateful. For Eddie and for cake, and for champagne which he downs in one and then starts in on the red velvet. He looks at him quickly, trying to read him, hoping he did okay. He already wishes he did better. 

And Eddie, ever clever and quick, glances around the room before pitching forward and pecking him very very gently on the lips. And they finish their cake, and colour comes back to Richie’s cheeks, and half an hour later Eddie is watching him do the Cha Cha slide between Bev and Bill and Ben’s words come back to him.

_That’s your man._

And.

_This is my partner._

And.

Snow covered mountains they’ll be nestled in very soon. Richie’s hair first thing in the morning, flattened on one side. Richie holding his face away from the unreal. Richie’s fingers holding onto a cast. Those same fingers wrapped around his in an arm wrestle. Richie in a leather jacket, in long pyjamas, in his boxers trying on one of Eddie’s t shirts and hey it’s a crop top on me! Richie drinking coffee, jaw set against bitter, Richie driving, Richie stopping to fuss a cat. 

Richie. In the first and last light of the day, solid and real and warmer than anything else in the world. His Richie. The man he loves. The man he clawed his way back to life for.

_That’s your man._

And he thinks, well, fuck. Finishes his drink, looks away from Richie and stands, hands in his pockets, fingers around that stupid meaningless lump of metal.

~

Richie has no idea what time it is, just that he’s had time to sit and talk — really talk — with Peg, and even Bill is flushed-drunk and smiling, and somewhere in there it’s gotten dark. Over the heads of the Losers table, past the crowd and the lowered lights, he sees Eddie leave out the far door and he furrows his brow. He follows him out.

The music still lilts out, the warmth and light of candles and chatter before the door behind Richie swings shut. They’re alone out here, in the night, but the dark doesn’t scare him so much anymore.

He follows Eddie down towards the shimmering water at a distance. He stops when he sees him playing with that wedding ring, turning it between his fingers so that it catches somewhere light and seems to absorb it in. And Richie…

Richie thinks

_Oh._

Because it’s a wedding, and Eddie’s had this before. All these people showing up for _him_ and a wife Richie has never met and never seen. A wife he hates in the same dull way he hates Mrs. K. For the same reasons. A hate not even worth the fire of it — it’s just a fact.

He swallows and thinks _Well, yeah…_ Because it makes sense that— all those vows today, promises. For better or for worse… Eddie made those, once, to someone else and maybe… maybe a part of him meant them. Because Eddie is the most honest, the bravest of all of them. Probably he did love Myra in some way. The same way he loved his mom, or maybe different. Maybe he did find something with her worth… worth promises, a gold band, worth… worth walking out here tonight to remember…

~

The night air is chilly and refreshing and Eddie rests his elbows on the fence posts and looks out at the stars reflecting on the water. Spins the ring between his fingers and wishes he had a cigarette. And then Elvis starts playing distantly and he thinks; _yeah_. It is now or never, and it’s not too late.

The muscles in his arm don’t feel real as he leans back, as far as he can, the throw taking control of bicep and pectoral and stomach and in a far off way he hears it splash into the water.

_Goodbye, Ma._ He thinks, and then. _Goodbye, Myra. Goodbye Derry._

_Hello Richie._

Eddie turns around with a smile on his face, real and genuine and relieved, and he whistles a bar or two along to the song as his hands return to his pockets. They feel lighter. He feels lighter. And he keeps his gaze on the somewhere light sparkling in the water for a second before turning fully to go back inside and—.

Richie.

Eddie freezes, looking a little caught out, smile turning a little guilty but no less real. “Hey you.” He settles on, because he can’t think of anything funny to say.

“Hey yourself,” Richie answers, and that’s it. He doesn’t say anything else because Richie can read him, and he knows Eddie can read him back. They don’t need to say anything. So he just stands with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched and waits for him, smiling back. He turns as Eddie reaches him, takes his left hand in his right, and they go back in to the light and the warmth and the laughter.

~

It’s hours later when people start filtering out, when the music becomes softer. The cake has been eaten and portioned off for people who aren’t there, and Eddie thinks— he wants to take some and put it somewhere for Stan but he doesn’t know where. He can’t think about it. He’s too drunk, watching Ben and Bev wrapped up in each other, cutting across the dance floor like they were built for one another. They probably are.

He swallows what he has left of his drink, one song bleeding into another, soft country guitar and he has to bite back tears. He hadn’t danced at his prom, either.

Richie, meanwhile, is standing at the bar with Mike, and they’ve been daring each other to drink the most disgusting sounding drinks on the menu and Richie ends up with something purple. He expects something sugar-sweet and gets something sharp instead. “Oh, no,” he says and “eugh, what _is_ that?” and Mike’s laughing, pulling the umbrella out of something in a martini glass that is, quite literally, electric green. 

“Jesus christ, man,” Richie says. “I think that would glow in the dark,” and he leans over it to cup it in his palms to see.

“Hey, hey,” Mike says, and nudges him and Richie sits up, looks where Mikey nods. 

It’s Eddie, sitting alone at the Losers table where he’d been fine, happy, fifteen minutes ago when Richie and Mike had gone to the bar but now, even from here, he can see that wistful expression. He looks like he might cry and Richie’s already standing.

He offers his drink. “You want this?”

“Hell, no.”

And so Richie downs it with a grimace and, eyes on Eddie, he realizes what that flavour is. Blackberries, only chemical. It’s all wrong, just like Eds sitting over there all alone, watching everyone else dancing, holding each other tight.

He sets down the glass and says “Catch you later,” to Mike who sips exaggeratedly on his electric green horror from a straw. Richie’s chuckling even as he walks away. He stops at Eddie’s side and bites his lip, holding a hand out, palm up. Once, there was a scar down the centre of it. Once it had been cut open and pressed against Eddie’s palm, cut open.

Eddie takes the hand before he can really think about it, because it’s Richie and he’s drunk and—“Your mouth is purple.” Quiet, over _I am a tall tree, I weep like a willow._ “Are we leaving?” And the lights blur in his eyes where he hasn’t let himself cry. The tears are pooling in the corners where his ducts lie instead, lining his eyelashes with dark. He doesn’t want to ruin this, for them. For his best friends. He doesn’t want to be the one crying because it’s easy to feel lonely even when he has people who love him.

“Do you want to?” Richie asks him, softly. _Over my scars are hiding. My branches don’t show._ “I was going to ask you to dance with me.” And he searches his eyes, tugs Eddie’s hand just a little. _It’s whatever you want_ he thinks, but he also thinks he already knows what that is. He smiles.

Eddie looks confused for a moment, expression tightening as he blinks and the tears fall, getting up anyway and letting himself be pulled to the dance floor.

_Your wind is blowing, and over I go._

He doesn’t know what to do with his other hand, the one Richie isn’t holding. Rests it on his shoulder, still keeping some distance between them, unsure. But he likes it. He likes having this with Richie. Likes that Richie knew to ask.

Richie breathes a laugh, soft and sympathetic and so, so in love. Because he gets it, that distance, only it’s usually his. He doesn’t say anything, just puts his free arm around him, and pulls him in. He twists their hands so that they’re still holding, but Eddie — he brings Eddie’s chest against his own and ducks his head down, lips brushing his temple as the song croons 

_So take me down easy, take me down easy._

His eyes flicker over the heads of the others but no one’s looking at them. No one’s watching. They’re so… they’re so safe. And a secret can’t be dirty if it’s not a secret any longer.

And Eddie trembles in his arms, muffles a little sob into his jacket, and just holds him. Holds him tight, as tight as he can, just moving them in a slow circle. Today has been a lot. Today has been so much. And Richie has been there grounding him the whole time and—. He shudders again. Fists his hand in his lapel like a child holding on in a storm. He smells blackberries on Richie’s breath and it sends another shudder through him.

_There was no sunlight, just ask my mother._

Looks up at him, cheeks wet, eyes searching. Flickering over and over and over his face. “Richie?” He wants to leave, now. Wants blackberry sweet kisses and— where has he had those before?— Richie pressed against him, just like this, for the rest of his life. If Richie would have him.

Richie thinks that his heart is never going to regain its normal pace. He holds Eddie’s eyes and thinks _I fucking love you._ “What, am I not a good dancer?” Grinning. “You can tell me, I won’t be offended,” He cups Eddie’s cheek with one hand, wipes away some of those tears.

Eddies breath hitches, in that way that children’s do when they’ve cried so long and so hard that they don’t even remember why they’re crying. And he thinks; _I love you_. He thinks; _I want this too._ He thinks;

_Let me land softly back in your arms._

“Richie.” Is what he says, again, brings a hand up to clasp around his wrist and then he’s on his toes and kissing him. Because he can. Because this is basically permission and—. The blackberry taste sets his teeth on edge, but he wants more. Holds himself steady against the storm and opens his mouth against Richie’s, chasing the taste. Thinks; _marry me._

Richie just says “oh,” into the kiss, and it quivers, but he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t even tense up. He just slides his fingers through Eddie’s hair and holds him at the small of his back and kisses him back. And he doesn’t even _think_ about who’s watching this time. Not even for a second.

And Eddie— Eddie makes this strange, strangled whining sound like it’s taking everything in him to control himself. To not just use Richie’s shoulders to climb up him and be carried. “Can we go, now, please?” Against his mouth, tears still clinging to his eyelashes. “I’m about to be arrested for public indecency.”

Richie laughs out loud, pulls him tight by the small of his back and then, steps away from him, looks up to Bev and Ben, but they’re still dancing, eyes closed, lost in each other. He doesn’t want to interrupt them to say goodnight. They’ll see them tomorrow, anyway. “Let’s go,” he says as he steps away. From the bar, Mike raises a hand in a wave. He’s got that little paper umbrella tucked behind his ear. Richie indicates where it would be on his own ear and whisper-shouts across the room “It’s your colour.” He gives him a thumbs up and — Bill is nowhere to be found. As they leave, Richie snags an unopened bottle of champagne from a table piled with fancy glasses — abandoned, for the moment.

Eddie tries to say goodbye but doesn’t manage it, only catches Pegs eye as she lowers her phone and winks at him, and then he finds himself climbing the stairs and Richies hand is in his own and he’s holding—.

“Did you steal that?”

“I only borrowed it,” Richie says as they reach their room. He slips the card into the key reader and they’re inside. He starts flipping lights on, off, on, still not sure which lights are what. Finally he gets the lamps near the bed and drops down onto it to take his shoes off. “Christ. I am drunk.”

“Samesies.” And it’s the finger gun all over again (why did I say that why did I do that what is wrong with me), and he trips over when he’s trying to undo his shoelaces. “Fuck.” Blinks up at him from the floor, and pouts. Just a little. “You’re still totally fine, I didn’t spend a decade drinking bourbon. Help?”

Richie, is laughing so hard he’s crying, pads across the floor in sock feet and reaches to help him up. “You disaster,” he says, wiping his eyes with one hand.

“How dare you.” But Eddie is grinning too, only one shoe untied, leaning up to kiss him again. “You were brave today, Trashmouth.” Because he was. He was so brave. Eddie uses one hand to balance, holding onto Richie’s jacket, and overbalances anyway. Ends up sitting on the end of the bed looking down at his one untied shoe like it’s betrayed him. “Okay what the fuck, this is impossible.”

Richie, shy suddenly, doesn’t meet his eyes. He straightens his glasses with one hand, and says “Just trying to be a little more like you,” because Eddie is the bravest. He’s always thought so. And then he kneels down — only overbalancing a little, one hand pressed to the mattress at Eddie’s knee, before he loosens his laces and pulls his shoe off. “I say, that’s one down,” he says, and then undoes the other one, loosens the laces, “Two down, it’s a record!” What’s started in the slow drawl of a Wild West gunslinger turns into a 50s sports announcer.

“You are such a dick.” Grinning, leaning down to grab at his shoulders and drag him up, kissing his nose and overshooting so it’s the middle of his eyebrows. “And I was trying to be more like you.” Fingers splaying over his cheeks, a little messy, drunk. “Thanks for dancing with me.”

Richie smiles at him, bright and honest. It grows wider, wickeder, and he breathes “Kiss me, you fool,” and then, in a rush of nerves, finally releasing and giddy happiness — for Bev and Ben, for Eds, for seeing Peg, for being _fucking_ brave, for getting it right — he starts laughing, wildly again, all chaos and light. He settles back on his knees and presses his face into the inside of Eddie’s thigh. “You smell like wool, is this Italian?” said against his leg.

“Stop, stop it— no it tickles stop.” But he’s lost in peals of his own laughter, covering his face with his hands and falling back against the bed and. God. Twenty seven years. For all of them to get here, to this moment. He thinks it’s almost worth it to be sharing a hotel room with his boyfriend, his wedding ring and old life deep in the lake, like he’s shed a second, too tight skin. “C’mere and pour me some champagne, stop laughing, what are you laughing at? You’re drunk too, shut up.”

He drags himself up, picks up the bottle and sets it on the bedside table, his eyes on Eddie, dark behind his frames. “After,” he says, soft, and suddenly sober. And his fingers are on the buttons of his jacket. He shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor in a way he knows Eddie would never.

“After?” He takes his hands away and looks up at him, watches the slide of jacket against his arms, watches it pool on the floor and—. “Oh. Oh. Okay. After.” It’s a struggle, briefly, getting to his knees and shuffling to the end of the bed to hold his hands out for him. “After works for me, for sure.” Because god he could get drunk looking at Richie, just looking at him, feels woozy with his fingers brushing over his shoulders, feeling the warmth of him under the shirt (clean soft cotton, expensive, designer) sends a warmer little shiver through him and any other day he would be embarrassed at how quickly he gets hard.

Richie’s fingers are already at Eddie’s tie, already untying it — silken slide beneath his fingers and onto the floor. And then his fingers are dipping into the collar of his shirt, knuckles pressing against the hollow of his throat almost hard before he pops the first button open. He kisses him hard, drunk enough that they both sway beneath it. He unbutton’s Eddie’s shirt down to his trousers and then drags it out, slides his palms up over his chest. “Is my mouth still purple?” he asks, against Eddie’s lips, against his tongue.

“Dunno.” Eddie breathes, trembling under the attention, how sure and steady Richie is with him now even when he’s drunk, noses pressed together. When he opens his eyes all he can see are Richie’s, dark and large and intense behind the glasses, and he has to shut his again because he feels it all the way down his back to his balls. The way Richie looks at him, sometimes, when he’s fully clothed, but Richie is mentally undressing him.

He knows he does the same, so it’s okay, but— Richie had asked about his mouth.

“Can’t see it.” He finishes, his own hands finding Richie’s chest. Finding solid flesh. And his fingers are numb but he still manages to unbutton his shirt, twisting a little to get it down and off him, meeting his mouth again.

Richie shrugs out of his shirt as fast as he can, desire building in him like paper, kindling. He breaks the kiss just long enough to take his glasses off and toss them unceremoniously onto the bedside table where they clink against the bottle of champagne. He gets one knee up onto the bed and pushes Eddie by the shoulder, the hip, until he’s up against the pillows of the headboard, and Richie sets to work on the button of Eddie’s dress pants.

Eddie is open eyed and open mouthed, just staring at him. He’s aware he probably looks a little gormless but like this— champagne drunk and light gentle, he’s focused on the hills and valleys of Richie’s back. His shoulders. His collarbone, the shift of his arm muscles as he works his pants open (and Eddie manages to lift his hips, manages to wriggle them down and off), and he wants to verbalize it. Wants to say you’re beautiful and fuck me already and all of the things swirling around his head but what he manages… what falls out of his mouth is: “Shoulders.” And god, he hates drunk Eddie. Drunk Eddie is a goddamn embarrassment.

Richie looks up at him (squints, really), all confusion, and then he laughs a little, more of a “What?” than a laugh, and then, fingers ghosting over the inside of his bare thigh. “Are you okay? Should I be worried?”

“Shut up.” But his body tenses under his touch, legs shifting to spread, licking his lips and dropping his head back onto the pillows. “I just meant—.” And his brain stumbles, his hand searching for him, finding his hair and fiddling with the curls. “God just, shut up, you’re hot. Shut up.”

Richie’s laughing again, in earnest, and he leans over him, pressing his face into his neck, reaching down to cup his balls in one hand, squeezing gently. “Shoulders,” he repeats and dissolves again. He has to roll away, onto his back. He undoes his own pants and pushes them down. “Are you gonna leave your socks on?” he asks as he sits up to discard trousers, underwear, his own socks. “It’s kind of a good look.”

“All the better to kick you with.” And his hand falls to replace Richie’s, touching himself through his underwear, before he thinks— no, socks on is weird. Uses his toes to hook them off and kick them out into the room, then follows Richie’s unspoken direction, sheds his boxers too, with another shaking kick out into the dark, rolling onto his side to look over him, one hand still wrapped around himself.

“Come here? Please?”

“I love it when you undress like a jack-in-the-box,” he tells him, but he goes to him, presses his cock against his hip. He kisses him on the mouth. He says “I love you,” because he doesn’t say it enough. He says “You’re my fucking favourite.”

And Eddie keens somewhere in the back of his throat. Richie’s mouth is still purple, and god he just wants to touch and be touched. He tries to remember to file ‘jack-in-the-box’ away for later punishment and fails, kisses him back. “I love you too.” And it’s clumsy but he gets his hand around both of them, own cock already leaking, already slicking the way, and he thinks about that first afternoon. In a hotel, just like this, Eddie’s hand around them just like this, and how far they’ve come. Drops his head to rest against his other arm, blinking up at him. It seems impossible that it’s only and already been six months. It’s been a lifetime. And they have another lifetime to go.

Richie gasps softly, presses into the warmth of Eddie’s fingers, the strength in them, the hot, feverish slide of their cocks together. He groans softly, fingers sliding behind Eddie’s ear, kissing him harder, biting down on his lower lip. And he thinks _like this, let’s just stay like this_ because he was too drunk and eager to remember that the lube is somewhere in one of their shaving kits, all the way in the bathroom, and he cannot fathom leaving him now to go and get it. Instead he reaches down and wraps his fingers around them, too — his fingers overlapping Eddie’s. He thinks about him throwing away the wedding ring. He thinks about how it felt to hold him on the dance floor with other people around. Their people. And Richie wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to say ‘thank you for being so patient, thank you for understanding—,’ and he thinks ‘i’m trying, i’m trying, I—‘

“I love you.” Eddie says like he’s reading his mind, the fluttering feeling in his chest is— it’s freedom, this is freedom, he’s free and Richie’s dick is heavy and thick on his palm and— “God, I love you. I love you.” As his hips settle into a rhythm, half grinding into Richie as he tightens his fist. What else can he say? It’s always been Richie. It will always be Richie. Uses his other hand to slot against the side of his neck, making sure they’re pulled together as fully as possible, craving the closeness.

Richie thought he’d take longer, honestly — after all he’s had to drink. Whiskey dick is a real fucking affliction, only he doesn’t seem to be having a problem tonight. Tonight he meets Eddie’s rhythm, lets him set it, matches. It’s slow and lovely — unhurried like they have forever, and it draws out this ache in him that steals his breath. Until he has to break for air, panting against his throat before he sinks his teeth into his pulse there and bites down gently. Until he bites to leave a mark. Because they don’t — normally. Not where others can see it. But now he— he thinks, he wants to see it. Tomorrow at breakfast, meeting one another’s eyes in the mirror while Eddie shaves and he brushes his teeth. He wants to see that mark that he put there — that he kissed and sucked into his skin.

It makes Eddie gasp and tremble, like he’s spent all evening swinging between revelations and dreams, head tipping back and hand speeding up between them. It’s still slow, more pressure than true speed, head coming back down so he can rest their foreheads together. He says “Ohshit fuck, God, Richie—,” and screws his face up like it’s painful to look at him, like it’s too much and too good and his toes are fucking tingling already. He reminds himself that, yes, he’s drunk and has gotten himself off drunk a million times and it’s always taken hours and— but it’s different with Richie. With Richie they can touch and Eddie will feel like he’s been on the edge of orgasm all day. “Richie.” He says again, pressing harder with his forehead, always wanting more.

He buries his free hand in Eddie’s hair and whines against Eddie’s mouth, too breathless to kiss him properly, so instead it’s open and his lungs shake as he exhales, and he’s _pulling_ him closer, but it’s impossible. He twists his hand around their dicks, around Eddie’s fingers, to collect the slow leak of precome at the head of his cock — his, Eddie’s — runs his fingers over the heads of them both, feels that desperate rhythmic pressing up, and all that fucking _heat_ there. “Jesus,” he breathes, closing the circle of their hands around themselves again, “I—” he almost laughs, or maybe that’s just his breath shaking, and he doesn’t even have to pull back to look at him to say “I’m so—” lucky, horny, close. His breath hitches, and then: “Eddie, Eddie.”

  
And Eddie, nodding, sweating, flushed, all freckles and fine bones of nose and cheeks, bites at his bottom lip with his back arching so hard he feels then hears the crack. He gasps, tongue flicking out to wet both their mouths, shoulder blade and forearm screaming a delicious ache that he’ll feel in the morning as he climaxes, hard and shuddering, breath quaking, still moving.

Chasing Richie now instead of himself, eyes open and obsidian, completely trained on him. “Please, Richie.” Because he’s asked him to come so many times, Richie has to know the tone of voice by now. The exhausted little keen to it.

And with his eyes locked on his, on the impossible darkness of them, Richie’s nods, tendons standing out in his neck as he — fuck, he just — he has to close his eyes so he can focus, squeezes them shut. The slickness between them now is Eddie, softening slowly, but he doesn’t want to let him go, he wants to come like this, just like this. And he’s aware, somewhere, that maybe it hurts Eddie a little — the high of it fading — and Richie’s fingers still around them both so tight his hand is cramping, but — “Yeah,” he whispers, maybe to Eddie’s plea, maybe just encouragement because he’s — jaw clenching — yes, _almost_. He redoubles his grip on the back of Eddie’s neck and kisses him again hard, messily, then whines into his mouth as he finally comes in a long aching rush.

It’s long, drawn out and messy, and sex with Richie remains one of the hottest things he’s ever done. “Fuck, I love you.” And Eddie means it. It’s not just this filthy rush of long forgotten teenage hormones anymore, it’s not just Richie in jeans in a hammock ignoring him for a comic book, it’s not just the realization of _hey you’re not looking at me, look at me_ , and the act of starting an argument just for the attention. It’s the feeling of coming home from war with body battered and bruised and suddenly knowing that you can’t do without your squadron. Or at least, so Eddie assumes. He kisses Richie again, brings his sticky wrist up and kisses there too. It takes a while for them to come down, breathing heavy, and Eddie waits until their airflow is synched and gentle before he moves. Before he lets go and gets a damp towel, cleans himself and then Richie with soft warm hands. Climbs back into bed and pulls the covers over them both.

“You said we could have more champagne.” He says instead of _you know how much I love you, right? You know I died for you and came back for you, right? You know tonight you made me so proud to be yours that I could die all over again, right?_

“Hm, you’re closer,” Richie says. “If you give it to me, I’ll open it.” He means it, he thinks. He thinks probably he could drink more, but he’s also sated and sleepy and his hand slides over Eddie’s stomach, thumbing the bottom of his ribs. He sighs against his hair, and then, murmuring in the way of the Really Quite Drunk “You know, this is so awesome. Like— Beverly and Ben getting married. And all of us not forgetting and… and being here with you, I’m really… really happy I get to be here with you. And also, I couldn’t have— without you, I’d still be— I dunno,” he waves a hand vaguely, because he doesn’t want to get into all that — Eddie knows. And Richie’s happy and he doesn't want to bring them down. “Sometimes I think this… like, just this, feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.” And _then_ he shuts up. Because he thinks, maybe, he’s managed to really say what he feels in the same way Eddie is able to do it.

And Eddie takes his hand and squeezes it, briefly, leaning across to grab the champagne and handing it over. “I think after everything we deserve some… moments of summer.” He waits for the pop of the cork, then takes the bottle back and lifts it. “To Derry. Bike rides and cinema trips and rock fights and breaking dams and hair like winter fire.” He takes a long, deep swallow and hands it back. Curls into his side. And; “I wish Stanley were here.” Small, like he’s a teenager again, like _I want my mommy, I don’t want to be here, do not fucking touch me._

Richie’s in the middle of taking a drink and he winces because, Christ he knows. He swallow. “I know. It’s— me too. God, so much.” 

He’s quiet for a moment and then he hands Eddie the champagne bottle again, and gets himself out of bed. It’s cold here, he thinks, and he has goosebumps as he goes to the mini bar and then the kitchen and comes back with a glass. Just a water glass, but it’s the best he can do. He gently takes the bottle from Eddie and pours some champagne into it, before he sets it in a circle of moonlight on the bar.

“I bet Stanley wouldn’t even like champagne,” he says, contemplating it, and then, “but he can laugh at me pouring it for him naked.” And then he comes back to the bed, taking another long pull from the bottle himself.

“He definitely would have laughed at slow dancing, too.” Eddie says, soft, face a little crumpled. Not sex-rumbled and severe bedsheets but the creases you get from pillowcases, looking at the glass of champagne. “He would have bitched Bev out about having a kosher menu, too. And then he wouldn’t have eaten any cake. Miserable asshole.” But he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t. Settles himself against Richie and pulls until his arm is around his shoulders, rubbing a foot against his. “To Stanley?” When he gets the bottle back, raising his eyebrows up at him. And then; “I like partner more than boyfriend, by the way.”

Richie smiles then, bright, relieved, but there’s sadness lingering in the corners of his eyes. “To Stanley,” he repeats. And he wonders what he would’ve been like, grown up. “D’you think he’d still carry around that bird book?” he asks.

And it’s that. It’s that which breaks Eddie on the happiest day he’s ever known. He makes a small, choked off noise. Thinks about the funeral they missed, and Stan Uris all curls and thin lips and thinner arms, laying next to him in the Barrens and pointing out sparrows, trying to scare him with poison ivy and stinging nettles, shoving egg salad sandwiches in his mouth, digging bony elbows into his side to make him lose at games in the arcade; digging quarters into his palm to make up for it. 

He thinks about how he might have looked today. Good suit, a new haircut, yarmulke. Would he have stubble? How did twenty seven years change Stanley Uris? And he hears Bill’s voice in his head and it connects — what made him special? Why not Stan? How was it fair that they had this day and Stan was cold in the ground? How was it fair that he had Richie and Richie had him and Stan’s wife — Mrs. Uris — Patty had no one?

Eddie covers his face with both hands, curls his naked knees up to naked chest, and finally lets himself cry.

But it’s not what Richie’s thinking. He doesn’t think about what Bill said, Bill’s words — like Eddie was somehow worth less. Less than Georgie, less than Stan, because he knows they’re not true. They flickered at the back of his throat earlier today — between the ceremony and the after-party, Bill pulling him into a hug that was too quick, too perfunctory, and Richie knew, then, that they still weren’t really okay. Not after that Skype call. And it’s so stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. Because as a kid he would have forgiven Bill anything. Had. This, though, this is different, and it digs at something tender and bruised in Richie’s own heart. 

_He dies and comes back suddenly in love with you?_

_With you?_

_With you, Trashmouth?_

And Peg, earlier, voicing without any malice something Richie thinks, sometimes — sometimes he thinks… _How the hell did you get someone to go out with the likes of you?_

But this isn’t about him, and Bill’s wrong anyway. And Peg didn’t mean anything by it. Richie hopes Bill didn’t either, because some part of him — some young, young part of him still wants Bill to approve. But he doesn’t need him to.

He squeezes Eddies shoulders tighter and doesn’t tell him to stop crying. He never thinks less of Eddie for crying. Thinks his gentleness makes him brave. He just presses his lips to his temple and leans into him, gazing into the middle distance, the half-darkness, over Eddie’s head. He just holds him and thinks about Stanley — usually the only one of all of them to ring him when he was sick in bed, or maybe the only one that could convince his mom that he should be allowed the phone when he was. Stanley who’s delicate hands and infinite patience stopped him from probably killing Richie whenever they went to his house to make sandwiches or mac and cheese. Stanley who was so so afraid, but stuck with them anyway. 

Stanley who’d said _I hate you_ and had every right to, after they’d let It take him away, after he’d nearly been fucking eaten, and then sobbed to them that they weren’t his friends. That was the first time Richie’s heart had ever been broken. He remembers. Stan who’d said _I hate you_ but meant the opposite, and his smile said it. His warm, brown eyes bright in the sunlight…

~

Eddie isn’t sure when he falls asleep, still crying, but suddenly it’s morning and his phone is buzzing and god fuck his head hurts. He groans, picks up, and it’s Bev saying “you’re late for brunch, assholes,” and he’s groaning louder and apologizing and sitting up. “Give us twenty minutes, okay? We’ll be straight down.” Rubs a hand over his eyes and slings a pillow into Richie’s stomach.

“Hey Trashmouth, we’ve got to get up. Bev’s in a rage and we’ve missed Bloody Marys.” Not that he wants a Bloody Mary. He never wants to look at alcohol ever again. But then he’s up and showered and dressed in roughly five minutes, only pausing in front of the mirror when he sees the bruises Richie’s left on his neck. Smiles.

“Are you awake?”

“I’m dead,” Richie says, still buried in blankets and pillows — both his and Eddie’s. But he shifts to squint at him across the room. “Jesus fuck, are you a magician? How—?” He must have drifted off again while Eddie showered. His hair is wet. Also the light is very bright. 

“It’s a lifetime of anxiety, sweetheart,” Eddie says, getting his shoes on and looking at him. “You can get away with not having a shower. You look fine. Just— I don’t know, deodorant and clean clothes. And then I’ll get you the strongest coffee I can, okay?”

“And an Advil?” Richie says, but he’s sitting up. 

“Whatever you want, babe.” It comes so easily, this morning, that he doesn’t even think about where that’s come from. He’s been very careful about what he calls Richie - Hon, sweetheart, sugar, sweetness, Trashmouth - to maintain that air of distance.

That Richie can wriggle away if he wants to. And Eddie thinks no, fuck him, he can deal with it. 

Blearily Richie locates the bathroom without his glasses and tries to get himself together. His dull headache seems to ratchet itself up to real pain as he pisses and then washes his hands and his face. The cold water helps.

In the time it took Eddie to shower, dress and, somehow, look fantastic, Richie has managed deodorant and clean clothes and glasses. His hair is still damp at the forehead and temples where he splashed water. It’s also uncombed. He doesn’t know where his comb has even gone. He uses his fingers instead and frowns at himself in the mirror.

Eddie waits for the water to stop running before joining him in the bathroom, painkillers and toothbrushes in hand and Richie’s comb in his pocket, and smiles. Wraps his arms around him from behind and rests his chin on his shoulder. “Well hello there handsome man.”

_That’s your man._ He remembers, suddenly, thrillingly. Squeezes Richie gently around the middle and presses a kiss in behind his ear.

He smiles, breathes a laugh. “If you press too hard, I will throw up,” Richie jokes, but his eyes are drawn to that dark bruise on Eddie’s throat, the one he put there. It thrills something in him, low and reckless. He concentrates on brushing his teeth so he doesn’t get a hard-on because, honestly, he’d probably have a stroke if he came right now with this headache. He finishes, spits, downs the Advil with a handful of tap water and then hops up to sit on the counter, cracking jokes, to try to make Eddie laugh while his mouth is full of toothpaste.

And oh, Eddie loves him. He loves him so hard. Even when he dribbles toothpaste down his sweater laughing at him and then squawks and cleans it off with a face cloth. And then they go downstairs to join the others.

“Fuck you, it does not look like come, it’s fucking spearmint Colgate and you know it.” He’s saying as they barrel into the dining room, and then he falls quiet. It’s like they’ve interrupted a wake. So many tired eyes on him.

“Well I see you guys didn’t drink any water before bed. How’re the newlyweds?”

“Eddie if you don’t shut up I’ll beat you around the head with a breakfast tray.” But Beverly is smiling, standing to hug them both, empty seats between her and Bill. “Come on, sit down, we were debating the pros and cons of a sharing platter.”

“All cons. I don’t eat egg yolks.” Eddie sits, pours both him and Richie a cup of coffee, and the conversation starts up again.

Richie’s headache clears up with coffee and food. He and Ben pick on Eddie for his food sensitivities and Richie argues for the seventieth time “You aren’t allergic to gluten, I’ve seen you eat it about a thousand times,” and the table starts getting a little louder and more raucous. 

“Fine, I’m not allergic to gluten, I’m sensitive to it.” 

Ben looks like he’s on cloud fucking nine. Richie flicks little pieces of napkin at him and tells him he looks fucking goofy. Ben retaliates by asking him if Eddie’s made him start eating egg-white omelettes yet, and Richie wrinkles his nose. 

“Like eating a loogie.” Mike adds and Richie genuinely gags, sending Mike and Ben off laughing so hard they cry.

It’s out of Eddie’s control and Richie is gagging and they’re all laughing and—

Eating a loogie. Hawking them up at the Quarry. It makes him think of Stan. It makes him think of the flat champagne sitting upstairs and the place that had been set yesterday and he leans into Bev and says: “It was nice, yesterday. It felt like Stan was here.”

“He was.” Bev, lovely Bev, the mediator and the maiden and the mother all at once, squeezes his arm. Sees his guilt and his regret and tries to soothe it before—

“He sh-should have been.” And it sounds conversational, sounds a little sad, but all Eddie can think when Bill speaks these days is how he’d told Richie that Eddie deserved less than him. So he falls quiet, pushes the last mouthful of egg away, and thinks about how easy it is to stand up to people you don’t love. That’s what really hurts. That he still loves Bill like he’s riding on the back of Silver on the way to get ice cream and—

_It’s summer. We’re kids. We’re supposed to be having fun._

“Bill—.” Beverly warns, because she’s Beverly and always the voice of reason not just for Richie but for them all. “Don’t.”

Richie goes tense, between Bill and Eddie, his eyes on his plate, his stomach still half-unsettled, but it’s not because of Mike’s disgusting loogie comment, it’s Bill. Bill pulling him into a clinical hug, yesterday, Bill never quite meeting his eyes or, at least, not in the right way. It’s the way that he’d tried the night Bill and Mikey showed up in LA to forgive and forget or — maybe not forget — but he’d tried. He’d thought… thought they were okay. Thought, at least, that Bill and Eddie were okay, but if he still thinks that Eds… if he’s still hung up on everyone else they couldn’t save…

“I was j-just say-saying.”

“Maybe you should stop saying,” Richie says, dead quiet, and down to his plate. Turning his fork over and over in his fingers before he sets it down gently and sits back, his eyes still not quite meeting anyone else’s. 

“I’m just saying what everyone else is thu-thu-thinking.” Bill finishes, also staring at his plate, jaw set against the anger and the guilt.

“Excuse me, you do not speak for anyone else at this table.” Eddie can only really meet Beverly’s eyes when she speaks, finds that her gaze is on him anyway, smiles soft and sad because, well, that hurts. That hurts low in his stomach and on autopilot he’s picking up his napkin and wiping his mouth and;

“Excuse me.” Like he used to when Myra started on one of her—. Eddie doesn’t know. When he used to argue with Myra, needing space, needing to get away.

“Eddie—.” Beverly stands, holds her hand up to Richie when he starts to get up to follow. “No. You, sit. Fucking hash this out, punch each other, I don’t give a fuck but you sort this out and you sort it out now.” And then she’s gone, after Eddie, and Bill is kind of flabbergasted. Because Beverly hasn’t spoken to him like that before. Never.

Richie sits down slowly and watches them go. And then he turns his eyes to Bill’s with an expression so reminiscent of himself at twelve — long-suffering, too annoyed and used to this shit to be furious. It’s an expression that says Look what you did. It’s an expression he’s never directed at Bill before. 

“I thought we already went over this,” he says, but he knows they haven’t. They’re not kids anymore, and it’s not that easy.

Mike, at Ben’s side, very gently moves his coffee cup from one side of his plate to the other, and Richie sees it in his periphery. Sees him gently, almost soundlessly start putting the more delicate china into safer places on the table and it would have made Richie laugh, would have totally broken the tension if it wasn’t about this.

“You won’t t-talk to me so n-n-no, I don’t think we have.” Bill thinks about that long midnight where he’d said sorry but hadn’t apologized, not really. Thinks about the long weeks leading up to this, sitting with his guilt and his shame and so much confusion. He misses Stanley. He’s glad Eddie is okay. He misses Stanley.

He misses Stanley.

Patty misses Stanley.

“And then y-you two, last n-n-night, like you’re not even th-thinking about him, or Patty, or anyone ‘c-c-c-cause you have each other so it’s all f-fucking fine now, right? No one else is allowed to be s-sad because fucking Eddie is f-fine, yeah? Fuck you Richie.” And maybe it comes out of nowhere for everyone else but Bill has been so angry. So angry at everything and everyone for just glossing over how many kids died. “Th-they were kids, Richie. Kids. Th-they should have— they d-deserved b-better.”

Richie watches him, his eyes growing harder and harder behind his glasses. “Fuck me?” he says in disbelief. “Fuck me for what, Bill, for trying to be happy? Fuck me for trying to grab hold of everything left to us and not fucking let go again? Did you forget why we’re all here, together again? Why isn’t it _fuck Ben_ , for getting married?” he asks and then, genuinely, “Sorry, Ben.”

A brief pause. His heart is racing. He doesn’t let Bill get a chance, though. He thinks if he has to listen to him stutter out another _fucking_ excuse he’ll flip this goddamn table. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, why it’s me and Eddie you’re so hung up on, but Stan wasn’t a kid when he died, Bill, he was a goddamn adult, just like the rest of us. And he died for all of us, but mostly for you. And so did fucking Eddie in case you forgot. He died for you, you _fucking_ asshole. So come down off your high fucking misery horse.”

Bill blinks. Once, twice, three times in the tirade of Richie’s fury, and outside by the window he hears Bev say Eddie’s name and Eddie say something unintelligible back and thinks; _can they hear us?_

_Does it fucking matter?_

“It didn’t kill Ben and Beverly, r-r-Richie. It killed Eddie and Stanley and Georgie and Betty and Veronica and Patrick and-and d-d-Dean and Adrian Mellon and—.” He doesn’t remember anyone else, can only remember the full list in the dead of night with Audra asleep next to him. “If-if they stayed d-d-dead then Eddie should have too.” Because Eddie coming back forces him to confront the real ugly thoughts. That it had been his fault he died. That it had been because of—

_That’s what It wants, right? So don’t give it to him._

Because of—

_I was just scared._

Because of—

_You want Richie too?_

Bill swallows and sets his coffee cup down. There’s the vague feeling of shame settling in his limbs but he’s been ashamed since that October day when he pretended to be sick.

_If they stayed dead than Eddie should have too._ Richie wants to break something. He wants to, but he doesn’t. And instead, tears spring to his eyes, unbidden and unexpected. “Wow, yeah, you know, I used to look up to you so much,” Richie says, “But that’s…” he laughs, bitter. He thinks he tastes that chemical blackberry again and wonders if he is going to be sick. But he doesn’t feel sick, just feels fucking angry. “It’s not Eddie’s fault that he’s here and the others aren’t. Nobody chose between them. No one stood him next to Georgie and Stanley and Betty fucking Ripsom and said ‘the rest of you stay dead.’ We were all just… Eddie went into the sewers for you _twice_ , Bill. And he’d fucking probably do it again, if you asked. And so would I, before you said that _shit_ to me over the phone."

_You, Trashmouth? You?_

“You don’t get the monopoly on this shit. You didn’t love Stanley more than any of the rest of us. You don’t miss him more.” Richie pushes a hand through his hair and thinks that at least the tears in his eyes are gone now. “I dunno, Bill, we were all dealt a shit hand in life, with or without Derry. But at least we had each other. So you can fucking waste it, or—… if you can’t handle the guilt, at least don’t foist it off onto the rest of us. We’ve come to terms, you’re the one wallowing in your own self-pity, with your own fucking hero complex. Just saying what everyone else is thinking,” Richie finishes, because he’s still spitting mad.

“Then why is he here and they’re not? If no one chose between them? And why do you think you have the m-m-monopoly on love when you’ve been hiding in the goddamn closet for th-th-thirty years?!” It explodes out of him, and he doesn’t mean it, and what wasn’t silent at the table before falls silent now.

“Bill, I think—.” Ben starts, and then stops again at the look on his face. On Richie’s face.

“I’m not f-fucking carrying shit apart from memories, which n-n-none of you fuckers seem to g-g-get. It was m-m-my fault Georgie was out by himself, it was m-m-my fault we all went down there, and that m-makes Stanley and Ed-Eddie my fault too!”

Richie, for all of his bravery yesterday, lets it slide. It feels like a cowardly fucking move, it feels like one step forward and ten steps back. It’s what he did the first time Eddie said he loved him, which was pretend he didn’t hear. Because it’s too much. And it’s not about him, it’s about fucking Bill, and it’s about Eddie.

“What do you want, Bill, you want me to remind you of all the reasons we had to? Because without us, more kids would be dying in Derry every goddamn day? We— we fucked up. Probably, yeah. But we were _kids_. _You_ were a kid, and you didn’t fucking send Georgie out to die. You just— you just…” he cannot fucking _believe_ he’s trying, in this moment, to make it better. He still fucking wants to make it better because he still loves Bill in spite of everything. In spite of what a cunt he’s being. So he throws up his hands. “It probably wouldn’t even have made a difference, Bill, if you’d gone, too,” Richie says. “That thing was so much bigger than us. Two alone wouldn’t have had a chance. Not even you, Big Bill, so… look, I don’t know. I don’t know what you want me to say, I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if you give a shit about what I think anymore, I’m just a closeted, fucking homo or whatever, right? But, fuck it, go right ahead, Bill, be a cunt, waste all the time we six have left to us now. Waste it on ghosts. But _I_ fucking well won’t, and you won’t ever come close make me feel sorry for it.”

And Bill thinks: _but I did, but I sent Georgie out to die, that’s what I did._

And he thinks: _god, I’m sorry, Richie, I didn’t mean that._

And he thinks: _wasting it on ghosts._

And he puts his head in his hands and breathes. Breathes. Breathes like ghosts don’t.

“Why d-didn’t you tell any of u-us, Rich? W-we knew already.” Because that— that’s the real issue, maybe, that he has. That Richie never told any of them that he liked boys too. That Eddie never told any of them. That they went to Bev, and not him. “Y-you’re right. I-I-I-I—.” But he truly can’t spit this out. Cannot admit that he’s wrong. Cannot admit that he’s being awful and cruel, lashing out so the others hurt like he does. “Fuck, b-b-Ben, I’m sorry.”

Richie’s blinking against those stupid fucking tears again and he has to look away, too. And what does he say? What does he tell him? Does he say _I dunno Bill, I guess I wanted to be more like you._ Which is true, but not entirely. Bill who believed that Eddie must be Pennywise over believing that someone could love Richie. Or does he say _I was just scared?_ or _I was afraid to get my heart broken, because if I told you all, then maybe what I felt for Eds would’ve been obvious. If I told you, Eddie would have seen, back then._ And Eddie had always been as sharp as the rest of them. And Richie had _always_ felt like…

That’s it, he realizes suddenly. Because they’d accepted Bev for being poor and beaten, and Stanley for being Jewish, and Mike for being Black, and Bill for his stutter, and Eddie for his hypochondria and his mom’s abuse, and Ben for being the new kid, for being the fat kid, for being so gentle. And Richie… Richie…

“I didn’t tell you guys because…” it’s the first time he’s voiced it aloud. Ever. Even to himself. “Because it was always Eds, for me. And if he _knew_ ; if he looked at me different, then I…” he swallows and then he is crying, jesus christ. He uses his sleeves, smudges his glasses accidentally, then just takes them off and presses his fingers into his eyes. “Because if it was one of you, it was all of you, and you nailed it, Bill. Who would ever pick me? Who would ever pick the Trashmouth at all, right? Beep beep, Richie, just shut the hell up.” 

He can’t look at Bill. Maybe they’ve always known one another better than they thought. It’s why they can hurt each other so much.

And Ben says “Eds would” at the same time Eddie says “I would.” And the look on his face is incredulous and tear stained.

_If he looked at me different._

_If Eds knew._

_And he looked at me different._

And Eddie thinks back to five minutes ago, talking to Bev about how guilty he feels and how he wishes he could make it easier and how much he loves Richie and why can’t anything ever just be simple for once.

_If Eds knew._ _And he looked at me different._

Eddie tastes—. Summer fruits. Something dark and sharpsweet, smells disinfectant. Can’t place it. “I would.”

_Fuck_ , Richie thinks, because there’s a million and one things he wishes he could protect Eddie from, and at least half of them are the things he thinks, the things he’s internalized, the shit that spews from his own mind, sometimes. He looks up at him and feels, for the first time since he left the table, some sense of relief. Of calm. “I know,” he says, and he thinks he means it. He wants to mean it, but they’re different at forty than they were at thirteen and he— 

He just doesn’t know.

“I know,” he says, trying to convince himself. “But I didn’t, then. I should’ve said something, though, Bill. you’re right. I should’ve been brave.” Like Eds always was. 

And that’s all they say about it, for the time being.

**Author's Note:**

> _One writes, that `Other friends remain,'  
>  That 'Loss is common to the race'—  
> And common is the commonplace,  
> And vacant chaff well meant for grain._
> 
> _That loss is common would not make  
>  My own less bitter, rather more:  
> Too common! Never morning wore  
> To evening, but some heart did break. ___
> 
> _  
> _\- from In Memoriam A. H. H. by Alfred Lord Tennyson_  
> _
> 
> _  
> _for Stanley Uris__  
>  ___
> 
> Join us on tumblr!  
> [ **liminalweirdo**](https://liminalweirdo.tumblr.com/) and [**slowlimbs**](https://slowlimbs.tumblr.com/)


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